“My husband!” she laughed a little derisively. On the day he carried the manuscript to Copeley's he brought back a packet of letters, magazines, and newspapers. “You are afraid,” she said, “that the young man who thinks that he is my husband has upset me. Her eye met his four inches away, and his was glaring, immense, and full of resolution, a stupendous monster of an eye. I packed them with the other few things I owned. Each time that we meet I try to kill you. .
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